Touch
by TrulyWished
Summary: A little piece, comprised of three drablets. Kira, Ikkaku, and Yumichika and how they touch those around them. Light yaoi and a bit of angst and I hope you will enjoy it.


This is from a while ago and I just never really got around to editing it. Now that I'm being lazy and not really writing, I wanted to get this organized. It doesn't go anywhere and has no relation to anything else I've written, just so you know. It was inspired by a fic I can no longer find, so if you know of it, please let me know and I'll make sure to include it here. It was about kisses between Rukia and Ichigo and their different meanings and got me thinking of the reasons to touch others. This one brings out a triangle and though the grammar is technically poor, there is a flow to it, an almost bouncy feel. I hope you enjoy it and will write me a little review.

Touch

Ikkaku

Ikkaku touched people for a variety of reasons.

Renji and Hisagi during spars, drilling speed and pride into their thick skulls. Leaning on each other to at least make an effort to get home before calling Yumi or Kira to help. Staggering together in an attempt to avoid spilling those last few drops of sake and beer. The younger men also made excellent shields when Izuru's temper was up.

Yumichika because somehow that pain in the ass always got up beside him and leaned, snuggling under his arm and unloading whatever happened to be in the sneaky hands. Or a quick swat to protect his food from the subtle slide of chopsticks across his dish edge. And sometimes, only sometimes, when the skinny body crawled into his bed and shivered against his side, cold from nightmares and the memory of hunger and snow.

Kenpachi almost always in battle, fighting desperately to prove he was strong to others and himself. The glide of sweat slick skin and the thud as heavy fists left their marks that took weeks to fade, long after the bruises vanished. During supper while they shared a bottle of sake and laughed over crude jokes and Yachiru's games of tag with the younger men. And the quiet nights as they lay on the rooftop, elbows just brushing as they stared at the sky silently, waiting for something to change their world.

Yachiru in a frantic bid to capture her and keep her under some pretense of control. To protect his head from permanent damage and to keep her from rushing into situations he didn't want to extract her from. The evenings she ran herself into the floor and fell asleep in his lap, curled like a kitten; one that hissed if he tried to let her go without reading a story. Gentle tugs of her hair when she rolled out of bed in the mornings, sleepy and hungry and still young enough to not mind sitting on his hip while the bald man helped cook.

Kira he touched most of all, flattening his hands over the pale stomach and hauling the shorter man against him in the quiet of their home. Gentle taps on the nose as supper was served, one last grope before leaving the house. A tug of the sash at the blond's waist was the only contact Ikkaku ever allowed himself outside of home – the formerly tidy white belt was left purposely undone for exactly that reason. And no, it didn't matter that Izuru said others could touch it; his lover had nearly killed three men (and, unknown to Kira, gone back twice to finish the job) over that thin ribbon, gotten slapped twice and was still sleeping on the couch for the last one.

Kira

Izuru touched very, very few people.

Renji because he was his friend and the only one he could trust for years. Even if the blond did have to carry the redhead home on a weekly basis, too drunk to stand. Friendly swats to the head or light punches in the arm were the vast majority of their interactions but they talked, chatting about their days and duties. And that was worth more than any physical contact.

Momo when she was up for it, clinging to his hand and tearing at his heart as she stubbornly clung to Aizen's memory. Her words dug deeper than any whip of Gin's and scarred just as vividly as her short nails on his wrist.

Gin, when the Captain was in the mood. Sneaking fingers trailed every lean line, pattering over pale skin that glowed against the death white of the Captain's.

Yachiru as she crawled over his shoulder and complained that he wasn't as tall as Ken-Ken and should hurry up and grow. While she sat at his feet when he cooked and asked a million questions interspersed with begging nibbles of supper. Quiet moments while he explained the mysteries of life, such as why she shouldn't kill butterflies but hold them gently in her palm and that no, tying a sheet to her neck would not let her fly like in Ichigo's picture book. But when she tried anyways, he was there to catch her.

And Ikkaku. Always Ikkaku. When they arrived home at the same time and playfully jostled in the entrance, as they ate and snuck food from each other's plates, during clean up when soapy hands roamed and pleased giggles echoed. During flared passion and whispered confessions. In the dark when the smaller form nestled in quietly against a broad side and listened to the pounding of a broader heart.

Yumichika

Yumichika touched no one.

His flirting was done artfully, graceful with sleeves and sharp edged fans as armor and icy glares mixed with acid words as weapons. When fighting, he kept his face shielded and his hands moving, never allowing a direct hit to any exposed area. Yachiru's play was kept firmly in line and though she crawled everywhere, her quick little hands never once touched anything but his clothes. His skin was reserved for only one, delicate and porcelain against the rough tan.

But watching scarred hands brush against a bit of trailing white cloth, the brilliant flash of a smile as they were slapped away, it all hurt. It wore against him, to see them so achingly happy, and his eyes strayed to other couples. Renji as he patted Matsumoto's rear and ran, darting away from icicles and flashing petals alike in his impertinence. Iba with his fragile flower of a partner, the very one that sent him to his knees mere weeks ago with a well aimed kick. The rough looking man bowing to a girl half his size and a quarter his age was much laughed at but anyone could see they were happy.

After a while it became too much and the long lashed eyes closed to block it out. And finally opening his eyes brought the blushing Quincy to his attention. Shy efforts were made to stand near him and Yumichika ignored the tentative offers. The older brunet watched in amusement as dark eyes narrowed and stubbornness brought the boy closer in his circling. Too young, too sweet, much too inexperienced, but charming all the same. Much more adorable than the more outspoken Hisagi.

Perhaps it was time to let the boy have a try.


End file.
